


No Gods Here

by applesofthemoon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Sex, Castration, Double Penetration, I don't have to tag for bestiality do I, Incest, M/M, Necrophilia, Threesome - M/M/M, it's not bestiality if the dick is human dick, presupposed sexual relationship between Theon Robb & Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applesofthemoon/pseuds/applesofthemoon
Summary: “Aren’t we a jolly band?” Theon said. “The Prince of Fools, the King Who Lost the North, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Together again, and with nothing to do but tell war stories.”





	No Gods Here

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a dirty slut for Theon/Jon/Robb porn, and I love how it's always so innocent. Everyone's always young and hot, with all of their body parts attached. I mean, of course they are. Who would want to read porn about two dead guys and a eunuch?

Nothing had been quite the same for Jon since he had come back. He had trouble sleeping, even when he was bone-tired. His mouth always tasted faintly of ash. And he didn’t _feel_ things the way he once had––pleasure or pain, warmth or cold. He could stand outside with no cloak or gloves and wouldn’t think to go in until he saw his fingertips turning red.

Three nights after the night he woke with a start to the red woman’s lips on his, he took his pretty steward to bed. He needed to feel _something_ , and the boy was happy to help. At least, he was happy until he had spent twice, strands of seed glistening on his belly, and Jon was still at it.

He thought of Ygritte, her soft thighs and smiling eyes, the way her back arched when he slid inside her. He thought of Robb, his hands shaking with need as they traveled his body. He thought of Theon, stupidly, and the anger he felt then was almost––but not quite––enough to drive him over the edge. At last, he gave up and thought of nothing at all. It was into that nothingness that he finally came, his hips jerking furiously as though beyond his control.

The night after that, he was taking his supper in his quarters when there was a rap at his door. There were people at the gates, he was told. One of them claimed to be Arya Stark.

She wasn’t Arya Stark. Who she was made no matter; she wasn’t Arya, and Jon had sent the wildling king and his spearwives to their deaths for nothing. No, worse than nothing. With the girl who was not Arya came a new recruit for the Watch: a criminal, slated to die, but spared “by the Old Gods,” the men of his escort insisted, as if Jon should have any idea what that meant. And he wasn’t just any criminal. He was the worst of the worst, the most hated man in the North: Theon Turncloak.

Later, when their guests were tucked away in spare sleeping cells and the men of the Watch were on patrol or in their beds, Jon washed his face in the basin on his night table. He couldn’t stop thinking of Theon––of how he had looked, like an old done man. Theon had always been proud of his looks. He had worn fine clothes and dressed his hair with scented oils, so that his neck tasted of fruit and flowers. He was the last person Jon would have expected to turn up white-haired and clad in rags. At first, Jon hadn’t believed it was him. _What happened to you?_ he had wanted to ask, but couldn’t, with his men and the king’s men all around. 

And why should he care? Whatever had happened to Theon, it was too good for him. Theon had betrayed Jon’s family, murdered two of Jon’s brothers and helped another to his end. If Theon hadn’t done what he did, Robb might still be alive. Jon had been a fool to trust him, more a fool to share his bed. To let _Robb_ share his bed. Never mind that Robb had never sought nor needed Jon’s permission; it still felt like his responsibility. Robb was gone and Jon was still here, so it was his responsibility.

_You knew they were wrong,_ said a voice in his head, _the things you did with them. You knew they were wrong, and stupid, and you played along anyway, because it felt good, and because you thought it meant something. That they loved you. That you belonged with them._

The fire in the hearth was burning low. Jon would need to be well-rested to deal with Theon tomorrow. He took off his clothes and got into bed, Ghost stretching out on the floor beside it. He lay on his back and closed his eyes.

Perhaps he slept. Perhaps he merely hovered near sleep, close but not touching. All he knew was that he woke, or returned from wherever he had been, in the blackest depths of the night. He woke and he knew at once that someone was in his bed with him.

How could he know? There was no breathing, no body heat. Only a _presence,_ indefinable but undeniable, and a smell. It was the smell of death, the smell of rot, so thick and heavy that it seemed to press all the air out of the room. Jon reached up into the darkness and froze when his hand met something solid. It was cold, and covered in hair. No, not hair. Fur?

A log turned in the hearth, and the fire snapped back to life. Its light was faint, but it was enough to illuminate the... _thing_ crouching over Jon. It was a creature from a nightmare, with the body of a man and the head of a wolf. Its eyes flashed yellow in the firelight, and Jon’s stomach slammed up into his throat. He leapt naked from his bed, almost falling over Ghost’s sleeping form, and grabbed a dagger from his night table. 

It was then that he saw the figure by the hearth, stoking the fire with an iron poker. “Hello, Jon,” Theon said. He grinned widely, showing off his shattered teeth. “Have you missed us?”

Jon backed into a corner of the room, holding the dagger outward at his chest. He looked from Theon to the thing on the bed. Slowly, it straightened and stood. Jon saw that it was wounded, with quarrels jutting from its leg, breast, and shoulder. Its clothes were brown with blood. Through the blood, Jon could see the sigil worked upon its doublet: the direwolf of Stark.

“Ghost,” he said, and then again, louder: “Ghost!” But the direwolf did not wake. 

The creature advanced on him at a shuffle, seeming to favor its injured leg. Jon felt sick. He readied himself for a fight, though he knew not what danger a dagger posed to a dead man. He should have gone for the hearth, for the fire. “Easy,” hissed a voice in his ear. Theon took him by the wrist, pulling his arm to his side. “He doesn’t want to hurt you, stupid.”

Jon held his breath and shut his eyes. Moments passed in suspension, then...a touch, startling in its gentleness. Cold fingers traced the scars on Jon’s brow and cheek, where Orell’s eagle had tried to tear out his eye. They touched the slash marks on his neck, the stab wounds in his breast and belly. When Jon opened his eyes, he saw the dead thing looking at him, its long muzzle bare inches from his nose.

“Aren’t we a jolly band?” Theon said. “The Prince of Fools, the King Who Lost the North, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Together again, and with nothing to do but tell war stories.”

The next thing Jon knew, Theon was upon him, holding him by the wrists and kissing him hungrily. Theon smelled almost as bad as the thing that used to be Robb, and his kiss hurt; when he sucked Jon’s lower lip into his mouth, his teeth jabbed and cut like a mouthful of broken glass. The pain sent a shock through Jon’s system, made his breath come fast and his heart hammer his ribs. He took a fistful of Theon’s hair and kissed him back, thinking only of how he had ached for this feeling––the feeling of being _alive._

He felt a chuckle against his lips and broke away to see Theon twisting around, pulling the dead thing against him. “Don’t worry, sweetling,” he said, “I won’t leave you lonely.” He undid the dead thing’s breeches and took out its dead cock. Jon watched, fascinated and horrified, as he stroked the grey-green flesh, somehow bringing it to hardness. “Oil?” Theon asked.

“By the bed.”

Theon took the flask of oil from Jon’s night table and poured its contents over Jon’s fingers. He undressed in a hurry, which was good; otherwise, Jon might have had time to come to his senses. As it was, he didn’t even have time to look upon Theon’s body before it was pressed against him, all ribs and hipbones. Theon curled his fingers around Jon’s wrist and pulled his hand between his thighs, into a warm, soft emptiness that made Jon shudder despite himself.

“ _Gods,_ Theon,” he murmured.

Theon kissed him again, raking a hand through his hair. “No gods here,” he said, and brought Jon’s fingers inside him, two at once.

Jon felt the dead thing watching them, its eyes glowing like hot coals. Theon still had a hand on it, squeezing and pumping its cock as Jon’s fingers stretched his hole. Jon tried not to see Robb’s face in his mind’s eye, all awash with pleasure. He tried not to remember how Robb would squirm and sigh at his touch, his breath caressing Jon’s neck. _That thing isn’t Robb,_ he told himself, even if it did have Robb’s cock.

Theon urged Jon on until he was well open, easily taking three of Jon’s fingers to the knuckle. “Help me,” he said. _Bloody hell,_ thought Jon, _I can barely help myself,_ but when Theon hooked his legs around Jon’s hips Jon held him up, bracing himself against the wall. Theon leaned back into the thing that used to be Robb. He wrapped his fingers around the quarrel in its shoulder and ground his arse against its cock. 

“That’s it,” he breathed as it entered him, its hands covering Jon’s on his thighs, “that’s right, go on, baby boy.” The creature growled, and Theon moaned. “You too.”

It took Jon a moment to realize that meant _him._ “What?”

“I want you both,” Theon said. “I want you to fuck me, _stuff_ me, oh…” His head lolled backward onto the dead thing’s grey-furred neck, his body heaving with something that might have been agony or desire or both. “What are you _waiting_ for?”

“I…” Jon palmed his half-hard cock even as he hesitated to put it where Theon had asked him to. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

_I should,_ he thought. _He deserves it._ He should have wanted to gut Theon from the inside out, to rip him from groin to breast, but somehow, he didn’t. “Hurt me?” Theon said. He laughed a shrill, scraping laugh. “Did you hear that?” he asked the dead thing. “He’s afraid he’ll _hurt me._ ” He laughed again and reached down to spread his hole with two fingers, to show Jon a way in alongside the dead thing’s cock. “Do your worst, Lord Commander.”

Jon slathered his cock in oil and fisted it until it pulsed in his hand. When he pushed inside of Theon, just a little ways at first, Theon cried out and shook, but he didn’t tell Jon to stop. Jon didn’t _want_ to stop. Theon’s arse was hot and tight, his muscles bearing down hard on Jon and the dead thing. Jon eased his cock past them with little rolls of his hips, burying himself deeper and deeper until he was fully sheathed, surrounded. He saw sweat shining on Theon’s brow, and without really thinking about it, leaned in to lick it up.

Dead cock was cold, as Jon might have guessed, but it was also thick and hard, and when the creature withdrew it felt so good rubbing against Jon’s that he had to shut his eyes for a moment. He waited until the creature thrust back in, making Theon gasp, then pulled out himself. Like that, they fell into a rhythm, sharing Theon’s arse between them as eagerly as virgin boys. All the time, Jon felt Robb’s dead hands on his, the flesh that covered them loose and dry. 

When Jon told Robb he was going to the Wall, Robb looked at him as if he’d said he was going to Braavos to become a courtesan. _You can’t,_ he blurted.

Jon frowned. _Why not?_

_Uncle Benjen said you can’t. I know, I heard you ask him. He doesn’t_ want you, _Jon._

That night, Jon didn’t go to supper. Instead, he filched a flagon of ale from the kitchens and drank it alone in his room, sniffling into the rim of his cup. When at last he worked up the courage to go to Robb, he found that he, too, was drunk and tearful, and they wept and traded sloppy apologies until Theon got fed up and knocked their heads together. They were in no state for a fuck, so they just kissed a little and went to bed, falling in on either side of Theon so he couldn’t slip out to pull a pretty bedmaid while they were asleep.

Jon looked across Theon’s chest at Robb, his head tucked into the crook of Theon’s neck. There was moonlight in his eyelashes, soft and white like snow. _You knew this couldn’t go on forever,_ Jon said.

_Sure it could,_ Robb said sleepily.

_What, did you mean to marry me?_

_I would,_ Robb said. _I’d marry you both, right here in the godswood. We’d say the words, you know the ones, and I’d wrap you up in a big bride’s cloak, the biggest there’s ever been._

Theon wrinkled his nose. _Why do we have to be the brides?_

The next morning was the morning Jon left with Uncle Benjen, and for all they promised otherwise, Jon knew as he rode away that he might never see Robb or Theon again. 

“Jon,” Theon said, sounding desperate, almost frightened. “Jon!” But Jon was past worrying about him. For once, he was completely out of his head, aware only of his body and its need for release. He dug his fingers into Theon’s thighs and drove his cock up into him again and again, as hard and as fast as he could. He felt his pulse pounding through the scars on his neck. 

He came panting like a dog, the muscles in his thighs twitching as he filled Theon’s arse with his seed. For a moment, the whole world was pleasure. Then he felt his come slipping back down the length of his cock, and his legs trembling beneath him. He felt impossibly heavy, as though clad in full armor. Someone stroked his hair and he leaned into the touch, though he could not have said whose it was. 

Jon didn’t know if Theon or the dead thing had come, if they _could_ come, but they asked nothing more of him. His cock, soft and wet, slid easily out of Theon, and the dead thing’s cock followed. Together they let Theon down gently. He stood sandwiched between them, their arms around him, his chin on Jon’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Jon felt like weeping. He looked into the dead thing’s dead eyes, the eyes he had last seen looking up at him from Robb’s side as they said their goodbyes. “I,” he said, and choked. “I…”

Theon put his fingers to Jon’s lips. “Don’t. It won’t help.”

As if Jon didn’t _know_ that. Theon’s fingers were rough, their nails cracked. Jon felt like shoving them away. He felt like punching Theon in the face. But he only held him closer, hiding his face in his hair.

––

Jon woke to the sight of the day’s first light strained through the thick glass of his windows. He was in his bed, the furs pulled up to his chest. Ghost lay on the floor with his head between his paws. When Jon stirred, he got up and nosed at his cheek.

_A dream,_ Jon thought as he sat up. _Of course it was a dream._

He got dressed and went to the cellar for breakfast, black bread and blood sausage. When the meal was over and the room near-empty, he sent for Theon. He was brought to Jon’s table and made to kneel before him, hunched beneath a mangy cloak. “The king’s men say the Old Gods spared your life,” Jon said. “Well, here the nearest weirwood is beyond the Wall. If you repay the gods’ kindness the way you repaid my father’s, they won’t save you again. Do you understand?”

Theon smiled a grisly smile. “Do your worst, Lord Commander.”


End file.
